


Cherishing

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [51]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Caring, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Welcome Home, internalised angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor is pleased to see Glorfindel when he comes home on patrol. Always.<br/>But - particularly now.</p><p>(Takes place after 'Lay of Glorfindel and Erestor', so it probably helps to have read that - but I don't suppose it matters that much)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherishing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wynja2007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/gifts).



> Xmas gift for Wynja2007 - because Glorfindel always needs more cherishing.....

They ride in through the gate, and as ever I am there. For so long now, I have been – not always the last one he sees as he rides away, the first he greets – but – I have always tried. How not?

I love him.

As ever, I count the horses, count the riders, and – they are all here, all upright, all alive, none look dangerously wounded.

Beyond that – I do not truly observe. 

No.

I am Erestor.

I observe, and somewhere in my mind I note, somewhere I am running through stores, linen, all the things I have done so long in running this House that I can think my own private thoughts even as I give the orders.

My thoughts on this day being – my love is home, my lover is home. 

It is the longest he has been away since all changed between us, since all became well and more than well, and – in his mind – perhaps less perfect than the Valar demand of us.

He does not hurry to me; he is head down talking to his horse, head up turned away laughing with his elves – always giving a show, a performance, always living up to his legend.

He is Glorfindel.

This is how he is, and I love him for it.

But when he turns to me, and I see the fear in his eyes – and I think none but I would read it, none left here have known him so long as I – the fear that in being apart I will have changed my mind, repented of this, become disgusted by him, by his needs and desires – the fear that I will send him from my bed, that I will ask him to be content once more with combing only – oh my foolish love. Do you not know how I delight in you? In the touch of your hand, of your mouth, in the heat and warmth of you? 

No.

Apparently still you do not believe in this, not quite.

And I – I can only be glad I have had thoughts on yet more ways to convince you.

He comes to me, and he raises his hands as I raise mine, we touch ears, in the way of elves, and then – then I lean into him, and I wrap my arms around his neck, and I kiss him full on the mouth – no gentle courtly kiss, no soft touch of lips to cheek or forehead but – my tongue is in his mouth, demanding and reassuring, and he – he responds, he holds me tight and close, and the elves around us laugh and whistle – and I wonder where they learnt that.

Eventually – well, I suppose it is not really that long, but it seems it – we run out of breath, and pull apart – a little way apart – and he leans his forehead down against mine, and I see he shuts his eyes as he breathes and hugs me still.

“I am here,” I say, running my hands through his hair, his beautiful hair, noticing the dirt, the tiredness, “always. Come indoors now, leave these louts to amuse themselves, come to our room my love – I have missed you.”

And he nods, eyes still shut, and slowly he leaves go of me, pulls himself back into his persona, and turns and calls out to them all,

“Practice ground at ten tomorrow. All of you. There was some sloppiness this time – but for now – dismissed.”

He turns back to me, and I raise an eyebrow,

“Ten?” I ask, and I shake my head, “Two o’clock,” I shout, “everyone will attend. Even I. But I have no intention of letting you out of my arms until then, melethron-nin,” and I lead him away.

Elves like to talk.

Let them talk.

I will not hide, and I will not let him. That is not who we are.

We are Glorfindel and Erestor.

And together – together we are strong.

 

 

“You taste so good,” I say, as I kiss my way down his chest, “always so good.”

He is tense beneath me on the bed, I do not know why, I cannot think what he is worried about now, but I suppose there is something. 

There is always something, it seems.

My poor beloved. So unsure in this – so confident in all else.

I keep kissing, keep exploring him, for we are new enough to this that I do not yet know every tiny fold of his body, long though we have considered ourselves vowed.

“I – Erestor – love – that cannot taste good,” he says, “I am filthy – we saw no fresh water for three days – and – I have not washed for longer than that. I thought – I thought to bathe before you – we – anything.”

I smile to myself, for we have already – the instant we were in this room, the door shut, his leggings unlaced, my robes bunched round my waist, my arms braced against the wall, his cock deep in me. This now – this is a slow second round – although not that slow – clothes flung aside, boots lying askew, hair-ties dropped – and I barely recognise myself in my haste and disorder – but it pleases him, for he – he is breathing hard already. I look up at him, and let him see my amusement,

“I have not been near you for full twenty days,” I say, “and you think I will wait while you splash about? When was elf harmed by dirt? It was bad enough to wait for you to fuss over your benighted horse, and bells, and say all your thanks to your patrol – I will wait no longer,” I smile again, differently, and I add, “I have been reading. I have plans,” and I am rewarded by his quiver, his gasp.

Perfect he is, golden, tanned, lean, heavy-muscled and flat-bellied. 

Perfect to me.

I daresay some like their lovers shorter, or more delicate, or hairier, or fatter, or darker, or – or female. 

Good. 

They may keep them, and stay away from my warrior. And the thought makes me smile again, to find myself so unnecessarily possessive.

He is hard against my chest now, and I move the last distance down, kissing all the way, enjoying the warmth of him, and then – oh then – my hands on his hips, I let my hair run over him, I let my face touch against him.

He smells – wonderful.

To me.

I daresay to any other he would, as he says, be only too obviously in need of washing – and it occurs to me this is not the sort of thought I should be having – but I am Erestor. I cannot change my nature.

“Missed you,” I say again, and his hands are in my hair as he answers, 

“Oh my Erestor, I missed you so – next time – I do not know – but – I do not think I can now be away from you so long.”

Good, I think, and I find myself relieved that my delight in seeing him no longer makes him determine to leave me at the first hint that all is not well between us.

Although, I think, there is no such hint – all is well, and more than well, between us now.

“I love you,” I say, and I kiss his erection as it presses against me, I remember the books, and I – I open my mouth and take him inside.

Only a little at first – this is not so easy as they make it sound – but – he tastes good.

Better than one would expect, actually, given how long since he washed, given that I can, I suppose, taste myself and him on his skin.

It is, I have decided, best not to think about these things, best to simply – do, and enjoy. 

After all, we are elves.

We do not become sick easily, if at all. There is no need to worry in the way of mortals.

There is an instant when he grips my hair, when he gasps in surprise, when he says – and oh my Glorfindel, I love you, fool that you sometimes are – he says,

“What – what are you doing?”

I do not answer.

It seems unnecessary.

My mouth is a bit busy.

And – though I do not know what I am doing, not really, it seems that I am guessing well enough.

“I – Erestor – stop – I – cannot let you – wait – I – oh Valar,” he says, and I keep on moving my hands, and sucking and licking at him. I had not really – I thought this would be mostly for him – but – I find – the need in his voice – the urgency – and – more than that – the – the wonderful, wonderful feel and taste of him – oh Valar, indeed – I am aching for more now.

“Want you,” he says, and then something of his unease resurfaces and, “but you – you should not – I would not ask this – I – it is not – “ but I carry on, ignoring his words, and his protests subside into muffled appreciation. Then – just as I think I will get my mouthful, and oh the first taste of his new arousal has been so good – so much better than a licked finger, so much better – his hand is pulling my hair, turning my face up to look at him, “I – is that – good?”

I wipe my mouth – my face – we are still not very practised, I think, even at kissing, and this – I am sure in those books it is all much – tidier, “Yes,” I answer, “very good. Odd. It – it is a strange taste – but – good. Because you like it.”

He nods, and I see he is nerving himself to do something, and,

“Turn round then,” he says, “let me – as well – yes?”

And why, I wonder, even as I do, is it always me that has to do all the wriggling about? I am sure you are supposed to be the athletic graceful one of the two of us. But it is not worth fussing, and – and it is a lot easier to take him into my mouth this way – and – oh I want – but – he is hesitant, and oh my love, I know you, so,

“You do not have to – the same,” I say, because – what kind of lover would I be if I thought he did? “just – touch me. Unless you want more.”

Besides, I know his honour.

Once he feels he need not, he will try it.

His hand on me feels so good – always so good – that I do not actually care much whether he will use his mouth. So I tell myself.

Concentrate on what you are doing, Erestor, I think, get this right and you will persuade him, you know how he is. 

At least, that was the original idea.

Now – now I find I want to get this right because – because I have indeed missed him so, I love him, I want him – I want him to know I love him – want him to know how much I have missed him, how much I care for him – I want to please him – I want – and I admit even I am not quite sure whether this is a good thing to want – I want to taste him, want to swallow for him.

Those books seem to get quite excited about that.

It seemed an odd thing to get so fixated on, when I read it, but – now I am here, I find there would be a certain triumph to it. 

He is still using only his hand on me, and wonderful it is, so I am free to move again – and I find – yes, that works, that angle is better to get all – well, most – of him inside, and use my hand to touch him as I know he likes – and – yes, his hips begin to move, and I am glad for my reading that I am ready to restrain him – or I think I would choke, and he is close, and,

“Erestor – oh my Erestor,” he is as incoherent as ever, “stop – you must – I – please.”

So of course I stop, and pull back so that only my breath is touching him, and I realise how my jaw aches from this, from the size of him. I ask,

“What is wrong? Why stop?” and as ever, I let show the hint of insecurity which I do not really feel, because I know my warrior, I know his need to protect, to care, to cherish, and I – I would ever give him whatever it is he wants, even when he cannot admit it himself – even when he ties himself in knots of doubt and fear.

His hand brushes my hair away, and he looks at me, really looks, his eyes on mine, and I let him see how I love him, as I smile up at him, and then, then he touches my ear again and it is my turn to gasp with need.

“Stop because – because I want it too much – it cannot be right to want this, it – surely – surely even you must see this is wrong, is against the Valar,” he starts, and I wonder at his never-ending ability to draw lines, I wonder how someone who is happy to bugger me until I can barely stand night after night, happy to let me do the same to him when we choose; how can this idiot – for love him as I do, he is an idiot – how can he somehow think it forbidden for me to suck his cock? – I cannot help it – I sigh.

“Never too much,” I say, “never. Too much is never enough for me. I want you so. It would not be right to ask it, perhaps, to ask one who did not know, who was unsure – but I am sure, I am offering, I love you, we have – oh my Glorfindel, we have done so much – why draw a line here?”

But he still looks doubtful, and I fear – oh my dearest love, what was your life like all those years ago, what rules were there that are harder for you to walk away from than all the ones I was taught, what did someone tell you, why are you so afraid, so sure that all the needs and desires of your heart and body are wrong, what happened to you that you cannot trust this, trust us – I fear he is about to draw back – perhaps even to begin again to think we should not kiss, should not love, should not – have the most wonderful, amazing sex. 

And I do not think I could bear to stop, to be without this, now that I have learnt.

“Beloved one,” I say, “there are no lines. Love is love. I love you, I love everything that is you – and you me. This is not – not the games mortals play, not the inconstancy of dwarves, this is the love between two elves. Love that is sworn to before the Valar, love that is binding beyond the end of the world,” I feel a slight guilt, for I suspect that actually dwarves are not as my love sees them, but I do not really care. I can feel him relax at my words, remember that I am Erestor, I am more intelligent than him, better read, better educated, I am the one he trusts. Better at rhetoric too, but let us not mention that now. Instead, I smile again, and rub my head against his hand, lick over him as he shudders, and then I say, “Beloved, I want so very much for you to come in my mouth, I want to swallow, I want – I want to please you in every way. And yes, I would like you to do the same, but your hands are wonderful if that is what you prefer.”

He cannot answer, so I lower my head again, and continue where I left off. 

And when his hands clench tight on me, when he sings aloud, when he shudders on and on and I swallow and lick, when he relaxes against me, holding me close, and I hear the hitch in his voice as he whispers his love for me – then I know he is mine, and I his, and I smile in triumph even as his clever fingers bring me to my release also.

 

 

Afterwards, I find it is I who must wriggle round once more to lie with my head on his chest, held close and tight in his arms, but he who – who clings to me.

“I love you,” he says, “you make everything – so easy. I – I spent so long not knowing what to do, or how to – to live with this need – but you – you make everything right.”

I smile against him, and I do not tell him of the worries I have, sometimes, that we will pay for this. What point?

I have taken it on myself to tell him, persuade him, that our love is blessed – so how could I ever admit to fear?

And later, much later, many times later, when he is still unwashed, and the sheets are now stained with him, and I, and oil, and I ache, and I daresay he does also, and as we lie there, I look around the room, the mess, and I barely recognise it as ours – after all the years of being known for my love of order, all the years of his harshly instilled military discipline, clung to, I now understand, as a way of making sense of a world that is so changed it scares him at times – but I am happier than I have ever imagined being until recently, and I know he feels the same – later, he speaks once more as he drifts into reverie, still holding me,

“I can hold my head high if you love me,” he says.

“I love you,” I answer, though he knows it, and his hands tighten even as his breath slows into rest. But I – I hold him, I swear to myself I will never let any harm or shame him again.

Even heroes need someone to take care of them.


End file.
